#Southampton Weather

[asordidbarwere]

Its literally colder here than in the northwest passage rn

[finexbright]

did u watch mp? can't wait to here ur thoughts!!

hiyaa nooo not yet i'm going on monday to watch. two more days till im a sobbing mess 😔

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

'Imagine a lush tropical island slipping beneath the waves': Drowned island the size of Iceland found off Brazil

An undersea volcanic plateau in the southwestern Atlantic was a tropical island 45 million years ago.

In 2018, Brazilian and British scientists were exploring the seafloor around a volcanic plateau known as the Rio Grande Rise when they spotted rocks that looked like they belonged on dry land.

Watching video relayed from their remotely operated submersible 650 meters (2,100 feet) below the surface, unusual red clay layers caught their attention. "You just don't find red clay on the seabed," said Bramley Murton, a marine geologist from the National Oceanographic Centre in Southampton, U.K., who was on the expedition. "The deposits looked like tropical soils," he explained.

In a recent study, the team showed that the clay's distinctive mineral makeup could have formed only by open-air weathering in tropical heat and humidity. It's the latest in a string of discoveries hinting that this patch of ocean, 1,200 kilometers (750 miles) from Brazil's coast, was once an island.

"Imagine a lush tropical island slipping beneath the waves and lying frozen in time. That's what we've uncovered," said Murton, who coauthored the study. He and colleagues think the island would have been similar in size to Iceland (about a fifth of the Rio Grande Rise's total area).

Continue reading.

Tagging @mindblowingscience.

[steam-beasts]

Snowy Sea Rescue!

Most of the time, Brendam Docks was quite busy with many dockmen shouting out orders, cargo being lifted and loaded on to ships to and fro, trucks being shunted by Salty as he bantered on with Cranky or even Carly like usual.

But in winter, it was significantly more busy than ever with the Christmas rush, so there are fragile and brittle gifts being held in multiple boxes that are carried out to sea.

Salty's driver's wife had presents which were amongst many gifts that arrived by boat to the docks, and his driver was eagerly anticipating its arrival until today...

____________________________________________

"Fourth cargo ship coming up! Get ready lads... and lass!" The Dock manager called out.

The three dock cranes were hard at work, unloading multiple crates of different gifts on to flatbeds. Salty was also hard at work, shunting as many flatbeds as possible to the right places.

Carly groaned "ANOTHER one?! That's the eighth one today!"

"It's the Christmas rush, Carly. It's a normal thing around 'ere..." Cranky creaked "Anyway, why are YOU complaining? Haven't you ever had a Christmas rush back in Southampton?"

Carly sighed "Yes, but...ugh, I never had to multitask unloading FOUR boats at once! Even a couple years back, it wasn't THIS intense!" She panted, sliding over to another boat. Down on the rails, Salty cackled at the portal crane's groaning "Hahar, sounds like ye are a wee bit rusty in the joints, lassie!" He said.

Big Mickey chuckled quietly "Trust me, you two. Be glad we aren't at Tidmouth Harbour. Over there's probably twice as busy compared to here, since it's the biggest harbour on the island!"

"Couldn't 'ave spoken truer words, me hearty. We'd ALL be tired out if we worked thar. Har....though, t' be truthful, it be takin' it's toll on me as well" Salty admitted a sigh, the work had been a bit straining with Porter away for his big sleep. Cranky and Carly exchanged nervous wide-eyed glances before silently going back to work. They couldn't bear the thought of being at Tidmouth.

Salty's driver poked his head and looked over at one of the ships "Oi, mate! Are there any red crates over there?" He yelled. One of the dockmen securing the crates looked back "Nah, can't say there are any. What about it, pal?"

"It's for me wife!" The driver yelled. Salty's interest peaked when he heard that "Did ye get a present for yer wife, driver?"

His driver smiled "Yep, four rather large ones to be precise. M' hopin' she'll like 'em"

"Oh I'm sure she will" the Dockside diesel chuckled. Just then, a chilly breeze swept through the docks, causing Salty to shiver, his frame rattling. Salty's driver exclaimed and kept a tight grip on the handles "Woah, ol' boy! Easy!"

Salty grunted "I get cold, driver. We diesels don't 'ave fur like the steamies!"

The diesel driver sighed and patted Salty's cab "I know, it's not really your fault. It's the winter! Everythin' around you gets as cold as ice, even the sea!"

Carly shuddered "Couldn't have said it better, Chuck! I took a dip in the water to find fish this morning, and it was freezing! My fins felt really numb and sore!" She said, flapping one of her fins "My operator had to hand-feed me fish"

Everyone murmured in agreement, including the Dock manager who was there to listen. The manager then walked over to Salty's driver with a schedule board "Alright, your crate should be here very soon"

"Hmph! It was supposed to be here yesterday!"

"Sorry. Bad sea conditions were causing the delay, I'm afraid" he shrugged before turning heel and leaving. The driver groaned, shaking his head "This damn weather" He muttered under his breath.

Salty let out a small dog-like whine at hearing his driver's dismay. Christmas Eve would be coming soon, so it made sense why the man was grumpy about it "Don't worry, driver. It will be here soon..."

___________________________________________________________

It was around 2:00 when the workload had thankfully died down, there were less ships coming in to the docks, and Salty had significantly less flatbeds to shunt. So, the cranes were able to get longer breaks and so did Salty, which was a relief! Working was ok, but admittedly a bit harder being one shunting engine short. But other than that, at least they could rest.

However, the peace and quiet was disrupted by a loud ear-splitting BANG!

Salty's whole body arched upwards like a frightened cat, and he even shrieked like one. Cranky, Carly and Big Mickey all nearly screamed at the loud noise, their poor sensitive ears!

"Flare spotted!" Big Mickey's operator yelled, pointing out into the ocean. Everyone immediately looked to where he pointed, and they all gasped in horror – it was a sinking cargo barge, and its crew were waving frantically for help and shouting.

"They're sinking!! Call the bloomin' Search & Rescue centre! Anyone!" The Dock manager barked from his megaphone. A workman spoke up "We can't! It'll be half an hour until they get 'ere in THIS weather! Those men will be down under by that time!"

The Dock manager was silent for a moment before looking up at the cranes "Do you think one of you three could get over there?"

"We would, chuck! But we're all sensitive to icy water! I got all numb and sore from a swim this morning! I was only in for a few seconds too!"

"Well, we need to get those men out of there somehow !"

Everyone murmured uncontrollably, no one knew what to do...except Salty.

Salty hummed thoughtfully to himself "Hmm...it be dangerous" He thought. Even if it was dangerous, SOMEONE has to risk it! Those crew members' lives were on the line. That's it. He MUST do something.

Salty's driver was on the diesel's footplate, nervously squeezing his handle bars when Salty suddenly jerked him off "Wha–?! Salty!" He exclaimed, landing on the ground with an oof.

Everyone watched with surprise as Salty jumped off the rails and went into his beast form. The monster diesel snarled and darted towards the ocean before jumping off the edge with a big SPLASH!

"Salty?!" Cranky and the diesel's driver gasped, the cranes spinned around to see him swimming towards the sinking boat. Salty wheezed and shivered as he paddled through the water, he was going to save those men no matter what!

His three pairs of limbs ached and clawed at the water, his finned tail giving him a boost. The crew on the sinking barge noticed the engine swimming towards them and all cheered and waved for his attention. Salty grunted and growled, trying to shake off the exhaustion as he reached the barge and its crew.

"Climb aboard, mateys!" He shouted hoarsely, the cold water had seeped into his vents. The crew didn't need to be told twice! They all crawled on top of Salty and held on tight as he bobbed about. Once he made sure everyone was one, Salty was about to leave until something caught his eye – something red.

It was the red crate his driver spoke about, floating on a single, small wooden platform. Conveniently, it was right next to him. Salty's eyes widened and without word, he quickly pulled it towards his buffers and pushed it along as he paddled towards the harbour.

Everyone from the docks watched in amazement as the diesel shunter rescued the whole crew "Salty's doing it!" Big Mickey cheered, and everyone followed suit. Salty's driver smiled "Go on, ol' boy". Despite how things looked from their perspective Salty panted tiredly, his body was numb and aching from all the paddling and the workers' small, but added weight along with pushing the crate was not helping.

Finally, the dockside diesel reached the harbour and found a ladder for the crew to climb. As soon as they all got off, Salty was wheezing and straining his breath, the cold was NOT good for him. Black spots were clouding his vision, along with a mild dizzy sensation, the struggle to breathe properly worsened from the water getting through his vents. It was then he soon realised it – this may be the end.

But he didn't fret, he instead smiled and chuckled wearily "Well, at least I did somethin' brave afore I go... har"" then in a flash, everything went black. The muffled yells from above silenced, and everything went numb...

He hoped everyone was safe.

____________________________________________

The darkness seemed it would go on forever. The silence was nearly deafening. But Salty wasn't afraid.

"Do...do you think he'll wake up, Sir?" Someone piped up. They sounded worried

"I can't say for certain, I'm afraid. We'll just have to wait" someone sighed. They sounded a little anxious, but they were also trying to remain calm.

The darkness then got brighter, big and small blobs taking form. Salty winced and watched as the smallest blobs were shuffling about, their shapes soon gathering more detail as the minutes went on.

"Wait...I think he's waking up..!" One voice exclaimed.

"Thank the lord for that..." another sighed, sounding relieved.

"Well? Step back, all of you! Give Salty some space!" The same voice from before boomed. Finally, Salty's vision fully returned, he could finally see where he was;

Salty was in the Dieselworks! A dim light shine over him. Surrounding him were the employees, and in front of him were none other than his driver and Sir Topham Hatt. Both were relieved to see him awake, as it seemed.

"Salty, ol' boy! Thank God you're awake!" His driver cried as he jogged over. Salty smiled "Ahoy, driver..." he replied tiredly, his driver then scratched under the dockside diesel's chin. Salty purred in response and leaned into the affection, his tail softly thumping against the ground. As soon as that was over, Salty asked "So, uh...wha' happened t' me?"

Sir Topham Hatt then stepped forward "You were a really brave and useful engine, Salty. You fainted right after getting those men back on land! Luckily, you were escorted to the Dieselworks as soon as Carly pulled you out, and the employees here spent 3 hours trying to clear out the water from your insides"

Salty's eyes widened "Well, blimey..." he then looked to his driver, and it was then he remembered the red crate. He didn't remember it being pulled up before he lost consciousness "But...I didn' save me driver's crate o' presents fer his wife..." he said in a quiet, guilty voice. Sir Topham Hatt's gaze softened and he looked to Salty's driver, who said "But you did"

"Aye?"

"After you were taken here, Cranky fished out the crate. I can't thank you enough for getting it..." he explained with soft smile. In return, Salty smiled back.

"Salty...." The Fat Controller began "For your bravery, you will be repainted into a colour of your own choice!"

"Oh, thank ye sir!" Salty said happily.

____________________________________________

A day later, Salty returned to the docks in a clean new red livery that would definitely get James feeling jealous. His buffers still had their oil weathering, but he didn't mind at all.

The cranes and dock men welcomed him back, and all congratulated him on rescuing the crew men.

Salty was very glad that day that he saved the crew, and his driver's crate of gifts. But asides from that, he was just happy to be by the sea, no matter how chilly it could get.

"Ooooh.... don't take me away from the sea, boys! Oooh....doooon't take me away from the sea! Harharhar!!"

[feigeroman]

Saturday Movie Night: Railscale 1

Here's an idea I've been sitting on for ages, which I hope will become a semi-regular feature on this here blog. It's a pretty basic idea - every week (if I remember), I share a video on here which I think you guys would be interested in seeing. Naturally, that means a lot of the videos will be to do with Thomas, or real-life railways (real and model), or anything else I decide is worth sharing.

I don't know if anyone here has heard of Phil Parker, but yes, I am basically ripping off the Saturday Film Club feature he does on his blog.

You may well remember me talking about Railscale a couple of years back. Well, since then, someone's gone and uploaded all three issues to YouTube (see that earlier post for why there were no more). So I thought, what better way to kick off this semi-regular feature?

See above to watch the programme, and see below for more details about the contents.

THE BROMFORD & HIGH PEAK RAILWAY (7mm/O)

This huge, spectacular O gauge layout was deliberately shrouded in mystery by its creator, Ferrari importer Ronnie Hoare. For security and insurance reasons, he rarely allowed visitors to the layout - the Railscale team were thus privileged to be allowed to film it for this feature. The layout itself featured over a scale mile of track, and included models from some of the country's leading model makers.

INSIDE A SAWMILL (7mm/O)

We next look around Les Tindal's scale model of an American sawmill of the interwar period. The sequence shows how Les adds details and develops scenery, and finishes with a look at huge he achieves the authentic weathering of timbers and metals.

PECORAMA (Various)

Pecorama is a permanent model railway exhibition in sunny south Devon, own and operated by the PECO company. They believe that any house or flat can accommodate a model railway, and the layouts on display have been made with this philosophy in mind.

WINCHESTER CHESIL (4mm/P4)

The Scalefour Society was one of the leading pioneers in the great push towards greater realism for model railways. This exact scale model of the GWR's Winchester station was made by society members from the Southampton area, and they take up the story of how the model came into being.

BOYTON CROSSING - PART 1 (4mm/OO)

The first in a series of segments demonstrating the construction of a model building - based on the crossing keeper's cottage at Boyton, on the Salisbury-Warminster line. Railscale's resident model maker, Mike Jolly, talks us through the process of researching and measuring the prototype, before building up the basic structure with card and embossed sheets.

LIVE STEAM ON THE ISLE OF MULL (Live Steam/10.25")

 In 1984, a miniature railway opened on the Scottish island of Mull, linking Torosay Castle to the ferry pier at Craignure. The line has since developed into a tourist attraction in its own right. Nick Dodson of Railfilms shows us around, and talks with founder Graham Ellis.

PROJECT N - PART 1 (2mm/N)

Mike Jolly returns to commence the construction of an N gauge layout. After deciding on the plan, he chooses and cuts the timber, and makes a start on assembling the baseboard.

COACH CONVERSION (2mm/N)

Railscale 1 concludes with this short segment, demonstrating how to convert a Graham Farish BR Mk2 coach, to represent types not available in the ready-to-run market.

[mykingdomforasong]

Ooh, how about Historical + Huddling for Warmth with DinLuke for the mashup?

((I have a wip where Din is basically Shakespeare and Luke is his patron (Earl of Southampton), so I've set it in that universe -- England circa 1593 (the plague summer). This is a very self-indulgent AU. This doesn't fit the prompt that well, but it's the historical period I know the most about.))

Rating - M (could maybe be T)

~

Din sat at Luke's writing desk, his fingers of his left hand scratching at the fine, polished wood, as his right hand clutched a quill that scratched away at the parchment. Candles and moonlight lit the room. A rare breeze blew through the room, cooling the hot summer air with all the force of a child blowing the steam off a hot stew.

The right word was evading him. He'd tried half a dozen or so, but none of them fit the meter or set up the right rhyme. His foul paper was covered in more scratched out words than final ones. He felt guilty for abusing his master's fine paper in such a manner, but there was no other way.

He stopped scratching, and instead turned into tapping.

Impediments, he wrote. tap TAP tap TAP. Yes, that would do.

"Master poet," Luke called to him from his spot on the bed. In his usual fashion, he hadn't dressed after making love, choosing to just wrap himself up in his sheets and drift to sleep. He pushed himself up now, the candle light dancing off the blonde hairs of his chest. "As your patron, I must insist you stop writing and return to bed."

Din had left him in a flurry of sheet and pillows when he felt the muse call to him. His coy mistress had abandoned him though by the time he reached ink and paper. With his newly discovered word impediments he'd managed to squeak out a single line.

"I felt inspired, my lord," Din told him.

"You can be inspired over here," Luke said. He reached out his left hand, trying to pull Din back in his direction as if through the air. "It's such a cold night. I'd appreciate some words to warm my bed."

Din laughed. He'd pulled on a linen undershirt when he'd gotten out of bed and nothing else. Even that was already sticking to his chest with sweat. The August heat and the light of the candles kept the room hellish, and their nightly activities only made it worse.

"I think I should keep my distance if you feel chilled in this weather," Din said, but he dared not speak any more in jest for fear of welcoming Death into the home.

Luke flopped back onto the mattress with a dramatic flare to rival Din's own fellow players.

"I'm not chilly," he admitted to his lie, "just burdened with desire."

"Then you should feel hot," Din corrected. "I don't know that I would help alleviate that feeling."

"You, master poet, are the only one who can," Luke said, propping himself up just a little to see if Din would move towards him.

Din abandoned his sonnet, stood up from the desk, and stripped off his linens.

Luke's bed was feather-stuffed, and his bedding was cotton and silk. The air around him seemed always so impossibly perfumed; all luxuries Din imagined belonging to Cleopatra and Helen of Troy. And yet, here they were now, under his knees.

"You, my lord, are a lusty devil," Din said, retaking his position over his patron. Luke's sweet mouth met his. Din felt his hand in his hair, and the stump of his right wrist where Luke had lost his hand trace down his side.

"And thou, master poet, are incredibly tedious." Luke's hand was between them now, moving in lawless ways.

"I'll write you a sonnet in so high a style, Luke, that no man living shall come over it, for in most beautiful truth you deserve it," Din promised. Luke always flushed with passion when Din used his Christian name.

"Any words that might keep you from me tonight are foul," Luke insisted.

"No," Din protested, kissing his cheek, then neck, then chest. "Fair, only fair words."

"Fair is foul," Luke said. Din couldn't quite make sense of that one.

"Then stop my mouth," Din said.

Luke did as he was bid, and captured his mouth again. Luke wrapped his legs around Din, pressing Din even closer as if he wanted every inch of Din to be flush against him. Din always managed to forget just how strong Luke's legs had become from a lifetime of riding. He found himself utterly at the mercy of his patron.

[unusual-ly]

🧣❄️🧺🐶 + Gabrian for the emoji drabbles

I am yet again writing a prompt I got months ago. Sorry for another delay, I’ve rarely had all three of time, energy and inspiration at once to write and when I have, I’ve focused on working on Such Sweet Sorrow (which is coming along btw! I’ve got 2 chapters stockpiled and another plotted!) but here you go! I ended up writing it in less than a day *^*

Read on FFN

It had taken some time - years, in fact - but Ian and Gabriel had eventually made the decision to move out of Bill’s home and find a place of their own. It was small, especially compared to the house that had been provided by the Earl of Southampton, but it was theirs. They’d long since gotten used to the quiet, and the somewhat empty feeling that filled that place after Anne had taken the children back to Stratford, but now that even Bill wasn’t around, the emptiness had only grown. Still, though, it was theirs.

They’d discussed children again, not long before moving out. Ian had once suggested they adopt a child in need of a home, but with the rising possibility of that dream coming true, Gabriel’s nervousness about becoming a mother had only grown, and Ian assured her there was no rush. Maybe someday this space would be filled with a young voice’s laughter, and small footsteps running across the floor, but for now, it was theirs.

It was just theirs.

… It still felt empty, though. But what were they to do about that now?

The first winter in their new home was particularly cruel. Gabriel had thought she’d gotten used to England’s cold weather, but alas, it was still unkind to her. On the third day of rough snowfall, she dared to venture outside, bundled up in her warmest cloak and scarf, to retrieve a basket that had been forgotten in the small stable behind the house. She was sure that was where the missing blanket was and they certainly needed it. As she approached the stable, she spotted it on the ground, just barely sheltered from the snow under the roof, and sighed in relief. Then she heard a sound and stopped.

A soft, high-pitched whimpering. The woven basket creaked, as if something inside it was moving. Gabriel hurried towards it.

Inside the basket, half-nestled under the folds of the blanket she was looking for, was a dog; probably still just a puppy, from what she could tell. Its little paws kicked as it whined in its sleep, clearly dreaming, and Gabriel’s heart melted. She assumed it must be a stray, seeking shelter from the snow. She bent down and tentatively reached out to touch its head.

The puppy jerked awake, startled, and at the sight of a human looming over it, tried to bury deeper into the blanket, but Gabriel gently shushed the frightened creature and stroked its fur, hoping to calm it a little.

“Pobrecito…!” Poor thing…! she muttered, carefully coaxing it out from under the blanket.

It would be easiest to carry it inside still in the basket, rather than to try and carry them both separately, or take two trips. She carefully lifted the basket up, placing a hand on the puppy’s head to stop it from climbing out, and held her cloak over it to shield it from the snow on their trek back to the house, all the while muttering comforting words that it likely wouldn’t understand, but at least her gentle tone might sooth it a bit.

“Ian!” she whisper-shouted when she entered and she soon heard him coming.

“Did you find the blanket? I’m absolutely freezing my-”

“Hush! Not so loud!” she hissed, silencing him immediately as he came through the doorway, “Come and look.”

Ian frowned as he walked towards her, cautious of the wide grin on her face; it reminded him far too much of when she was engaged in some chaotic shenanigans with Bill. He looked down at the partially covered basket.

“Does this mean you didn’t find the blanket?”

Gabriel rolled her eyes, “I have the blanket, Ian, now come here!” she softened as she moved her cloak aside, “Someone was using it.”

Ian’s eyes widened at the sight of the puppy, now curled up and staring back at him.

“Oh…!”

“He was sheltering from the snow in the stable.”

He reached out a hand to scratch behind the dog’s ear, and it closed its eyes and leaned into his hand. Ian smiled sadly, “Poor thing’s starved for attention. And just plain starved, I’ll bet,” he exchanged a look with Gabriel, “I suppose he can borrow the blanket for now.”

“Only for now?”

He just nodded, “And join us for dinner.”

She stared blankly at him, “Ian.”

“… Gabby…” he was wavering.

Gabriel put the basket down and carefully lifted the puppy out, cradling it in her arms, and nuzzled its cheek with hers, all while pouting at Ian, and he was so easily breaking under their combined puppy-dog eyes. She persisted.

“I know we cannot guarantee we’ll be able to care for him in the long term, but if not us, then who? How can we just leave an animal to suffer when we have the means to help it?”

He had no argument, to be fair. It might cause a minor strain on their resources, but they could probably manage that. They could figure it out.

And Gabriel seemed so happy. He sighed, and smiled in defeat, and took a step closer to press a kiss to her forehead. She returned his smile, then held the puppy towards him expectantly, and he laughed lightly before kissing his forehead as well. Then he took him from her, holding him close.

“Come on, then. Let’s find you something to eat.”

Because now, he, too, was theirs.

[themarconigraph]

A postcard written by Jack Phillips to his sister Elsie, postmarked April 6, 1912. The front is an image of Titanic docked at Southampton. It reads:

"Thanks very much for your letter. Having glorious weather, went to Cowes yesterday. Will write later before we sail. Love all, Jack"

Source: Titanic hero's postcard 'should be returned to Godalming'

[henk-heijmans]

Fishermen upon a Lee-Shore, in Squally Weather, 1802, Southampton City Art Gallery - by J. M. W. Turner (1775 - 1851), English

[believemetheodore]

Whether near or far

Ted Lasso x Rebecca Welton

Rebecca is missing. And Ted feels sick to his stomach.

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, non graphic references to the death of Ted's father, mentions of alcohol, Rupert is mentioned, panic attack/ general anxiety (please let me know if you want me to add anything else)

Rebecca is missing. And Ted feels sick to his stomach. 

He does his best to nod along as Keeley relays what information she knows. She hasn’t been able to get ahold of Rebecca for almost 48 hours. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. She hasn’t been in the office, and she’s not at her house. Keeley’s obvious concern amplifies his own as she continues to speak. 

Keeley was already waiting in the car park when Ted and the team got off the bus, the first thing out of her mouth being, “Ted, have you heard from Rebecca?” His heart stopped. He had yet to hear from Rebecca. She had texted him to say good luck before their game against Southampton, followed by a congratulatory text and a goodnight later in the evening. That’d been 12 hours ago. 

He has so many questions he wants to ask, all of them on the tip of his tongue. But all Ted can manage to do is continue to nod along, and at this point, he can’t tell if it’s a polite confirmation or if it’s simply an attempt to shake the ringing sound from his ears. 

A glance over at Beard and Roy is all he needs to excuse himself for the rest of the day. His shirt collar feels too tight, and his backpack too heavy, but he doesn’t waste any time making his way toward Rebecca’s house. 

He calls her mobile once, twice, and three times. Each call goes straight to voicemail, and he fights back the wave of nausea that hits him each time he hits redial. The spare key Rebecca gave him months ago burns a hole in his pocket the closer he gets to her doorstep. He has no reason to think that he'll find anything other than what Keeley told him she'd found, an empty wine glass on the kitchen counter, her bed unmade, and each room as empty as the last. Still, part of him keeps hoping, pushing down his fear. 

Rebecca isn't home, and wherever she is she went in a hurry, or without care. Her purse and winter coat were left behind. His mind wanders to worst-case scenarios as he locks the door behind him, London’s icy weather hitting him like a wall. 

He hates this feeling. Memories of the time his son Henry broke his arm at school flood his mind. It was more than a year ago now, but there has never been a feeling worse than wanting to look after someone and not being able to. Only being able to see his little boy over facetime as he showed off his new cast broke his heart. And Ted can feel that familiar cracking beneath his ribs as he imagines the possibility of her being somewhere hurt or sick, and all alone.

Ted grapples with himself, fighting to keep Rebecca’s wellbeing at the forefront of his mind, making his way on foot around Richmond, stopping anywhere he thinks she might’ve ended up. He sees her well enough after all this time to know everything she does is for a reason. Rebecca wouldn’t just up and disappear without cause. Though, he can’t decide if that makes him feel better or worse about this situation. 

He calls her mother, but Deborah Welton can only confirm that Rebecca hasn’t been taken to the hospital, and isn’t hiding out in her childhood home. “Ted, sweetheart, don’t wear yourself thin fretting over Rebecca. She used to do this when she was a girl. Run away and hide for a while,” Deborah tries to offer her comfort, he can nearly hear her gentle smile, “She hid up in our attic for a whole week one summer, lived off of meals from a picnic basket I was leaving at the bottom of the stairs”. 

He likes the idea of young Rebecca being so stubborn. He likes the confirmation that she's always been tenacious, and fiercely independent. He can see the vein of shyness running through her, even in that childhood tale. It's a quiet nervous quality visible in her tendency to bury herself rather than feel as though she's burdening others. She's timid in her acceptance of affection of any sort. Though it's been a privilege to hop over those fences, and help break down some of those walls she built. 

He thinks about himself as a child. Probably just as hard-headed, persistent in his need to complete any task he'd set his mind to. He knows his habit of shutting down difficult feelings and deflecting from his own troubles has followed him into adulthood, and by golly if it hasn't come back to bite him in the butt. He's working on it. Rebecca makes it easier. 

Deborah’s words help slow his racing mind. He focuses on the positive: Rebecca has done this before, and she's more than likely safe. She'll be okay. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Ted breathes out, “any idea where she might be now?” “She’s always been a mystery to me. But, wherever she is, it’ll be right under your nose. She never strays too far from home”. 

It's like the worst scavenger hunt he's ever been on. Doing what he needs to do to recall everything Rebecca has ever told him; trying to call to mind the tiniest details. He picks up the metaphorical pieces she's left behind, hints and clues she's sprinkled into their daily conversations, neither of them the wiser. He can only hope he's known her well enough, loved her well enough, to find her hiding spot. 

It's raining now, but Ted hardly notices the wet spots on his puffer jacket as he makes his way across the green, through winding cobblestone alleyways. Rebecca isn't in the pub, but Mae promises to let him know if she catches head or tail of her. 

His home isn't too far, and his feet carry him without instruction, his hands shoved in the pockets of his khakis. Ted runs over the last couple of weeks, trying, and to his dismay, failing to pinpoint any stressors that may have prompted Rebecca's sudden disappearing act. He can't remember her acting out of sorts. 

She seemed so calm, and decidedly content the last time he saw her. She had been curled up in bed with a smile across her sleeping face when he snuck out at 5 am to meet the team for their away game. But there must've been something he missed, a worry of hers he didn't hear, her insecurities creeping in. 

His stomach twists and he can feel nausea returning, his own past and regrets fueling his anxiety. Doctor Sharon has walked Ted through turning his life inside-out, upside-down, and backward. Helping him come to terms with all his lingering animosity, and misplaced guilt. Still, his mind continues to retrace those familiar steps on a downward spiral, drawing comparisons where there are none.

When his father died Ted spent a week in bed, staring up at the acoustic tile ceiling of his aunt's basement. Despite his anger and upset, Ted had been desperate to understand how he hadn't seen his father's death coming. Surely there had been red flags, or glaring warning signs he had missed. 

He never could put his finger on anything. Ted let his rage set in. Allowed his resentment to grow, and the tiny pit of guilt to make a home. Stole beer and liquor from the fridge for the rest of his senior year. He made his friends laugh, even if it was at his expense. College was much the same, though he did his best to slow down on the drinking, especially once Beard was in the picture. 

Ted had sworn he wouldn't let anyone get by him knowing that they might be hurting inside. He'd seen the pain Rebecca had on her shoulders the moment they met, and he'd helped her carry the load, shedding some of his own baggage along the way. But now it seems there's something he missed. 

He shakes his head again, wiping out the mental image of days gone by. He's starting to feel like an etch-a-sketch with all this shaking to erase business. 

He reaches his own doorstep, waving hello to familiar faces as they pass while he searches for his keys. He plasters on a bright smile, and hopes that it's enough to distract from the way his hands haven't stopped shaking. 

He takes the stairs up, slow and steady not certain that he trusts his legs to support him if he goes any faster. He's knees feel weak and he knows it's only a matter of time before he crashes to the floorboards. He's determined to make it into the privacy of his own flat first though. 

His backpack is abandoned by the door and he's quick to throw off his jacket, and shimmy out of his pullover. Jittery fingers fight the tiny buttons of his shirt collar, working them open to free his breath. 

His knees give out in the kitchen and he resigns himself to ride out the panic attack with his back to the kitchen cupboards. He's honestly just glad he made it home.

Ted focuses on his breathing exercises, breath stuttering when his anxious thoughts win out. 

People don't just run away to hide without cause. Rebecca and Ted have only really been together for a few months, though they'd both be fools to assume they haven't been in love far longer than that. It breaks his heart to think that maybe she didn't trust him enough to share her struggles with him. Maybe, like he was for Michelle, he's become too much to handle. Maybe it's him she's hiding from. He's not sure he'd blame her if that was the case. 

In for four. Hold for seven. Out for five. Ted forces himself to breathe the way Doctor Sharon had taught him. It takes a while, but it works. 

The sun is much lower in the sky by the time he regains feeling in his limbs, and the ringing in his ears stops. He needs to use the countertop to steady himself as he stands but feels surprisingly stable once he's at his full height again. There’s a bottle of whiskey in the living room calls to him, but he pours himself a glass of cold water instead. Logic prevails as Ted reasons that surely Deborah Welton is right. Rebecca likely hasn't gone far, and she'll re-emerge when she feels comfortable doing so; he decides he should be sober when she does. 

He’s on his second glass of water when he notices the cashmere cardigan draped over the arm of his sofa. A quick look towards the front door reveals the silver sneakers he walked right past in his state of panic. It’s his home, but he still tiptoes down the hall and up the stairs towards his bedroom. As expected there’s a human-sized lump under the navy blue duvet, curled up in the middle of the double bed. 

“Becca?” his voice is low as he crouches next to the bed. He resists the urge to reach out and touch her. Part of him is too afraid to scare her off, the rest still not entirely convinced she’s been here all along. 

She stirs, rolling over to face him, green eyes fluttering open. “Good morning,” she sighs. He can’t help the chuckle that leaves him, “Not quiet”. Rebecca’s brows furrow as she blinks herself awake. Ted’s face comes into focus, his eyes rimmed red. “You’re home early,” she says. 

He nods, “boys were ready to leave earlier in the morning than we expected. Traffic wasn’t bad”, Ted confirms. “Keeley said she couldn’t get a hold of you. You weren’t at home when she went to check either”. 

“I'm sorry,” she whispers. 

Normally the quiet tone is reserved for early morning mumbled affections, flirtations and dirty jokes; light and accompanied butterfly kisses or mischievous laughter. 

Now, she sounds frightened and ashamed. He can see the damage Rupert's talons left behind, the concessions she continues to pay. And Ted works to set aside the influx of his own emotions, waiting to hear her out before he reacts. 

She breathes deeply, her voice stronger when she says, “I didn't mean to worry you. I didn't think you'd be home until tomorrow morning”.

“You just wanted to hide for a while” Ted offers an understanding smile. His left hand reaching to help loosen the vice-like grip her right hand has on the duvet, “ain't nothing wrong with that”.

She shrugs. She wanted to hide. Overcome by an urge to run away. But, she could've gone anywhere. She could've booked a flight, or spent a month in the Mediterranean on her yacht. But, instead, she dug out the spare key that Ted had given her and snuggled herself down under his duvet. She thinks now that maybe she didn't want to get lost, but rather wanted to be found.

They agree to shower together. Washing away any lingering hurts or fears. Content to have their own moment completely alone. He helps her wash her hair, and she laughs when soap suds get stuck to his mustach, even more, when he adds more just to make her happy. She calls him silly, but he can hear the affection in her voice. He can feel it when she cups his cheek, their eyes meeting; her silent way of checking in. 

She puts her silk pyjama pants back on but steals one of her worn sleep shirts for the night. Ted tries not to read into it but allows himself to relax at the sight of her in his clothes; a reminder that she isn’t going anywhere. 

“I guess I should let your mom and Keeley know I’ve found you,” Ted smiles his usual little smile, much more himself now. “You called my mum?” He sets his phone down on his nightstand after shooting off the necessary texts. Neither of them wastes much time before slipping into bed together. Ted shrugs, “Figured she might know where you were hiding”. 

Rebecca hums. She doesn’t love how close Ted and her mum are, especially since her own relationship with the woman is still on the mend. But, the innocence and genuine nature of his reason for reaching out to Deborah settle her mind. His honesty reminds her Ted never has much to hide from her. 

“What did mum have to say?” “She said you’d probably be right under my nose,” Ted’s voice is muffled now as he nuzzles against her neck, “She was right”. “I just needed to get away. I feel safe with you. I suppose your flat was the next best thing”. 

In the morning they’ll talk about what had Rebecca all stressed out and jonesing for a place to hide. And, Ted will tell her about his panic attack, and how afraid he was when Keeley said Rebecca was missing. They’ll make plans for the future, and build a mental map to help them both navigate days like this should they come again. 

Tomorrow will be a day for understanding, clarity, and growth. They’ll learn to love each other better than they already do and shut down all unneeded apologies. 

But tonight, exhaustion wins out. Rebecca is at peace in Ted’s arms where she feels safest, the rest of the world held at bay. Ted finds sleep easy with the smell of Rebecca’s shampoo on his sheets, and her fingertips tracing patterns up and down his back. They focus on the moment they’re in. Loved, and in love, certain they’ll make it through this. Together. 

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

arent ocean liners and cruise ships basically the same thing? how can you like one and not the other?

oh my guy, theyre certainly not the same thing.

they might seem similar to those of the world who arent super into ships, but theyre both different vessels by design and function. if youd rather watch a video detailing differences, id recommend this one by the great big move or oceanliner designs video comparing the strathaird to the pacific encounter, but ill also happily explain some basic differences because i like infodumping.

see we dont really have a use for ocean liners anymore; they were mostly phased out when jet air travel picked up steam. the only one existing today is the rms queen mary 2.

ocean liners acted essentially as buses for the sea. they offered regular passage across continents. the most famous route is probably the southampton to new york route which is what the titanic was intended for. most of the famous ocean liners were on this route like the lusitania, the queen mary, the normandie, the bremen, etc.

but there were plenty of other routes going across the whole ocean. the italian line had a south american service, canadian pacific had a whole thing from liverpool to quebec that linked to their railways, p&o did a lot of stuff around australia and aotearoa, etc.

because of the regular passage offered, ocean liners couldnt sail around storms like cruise ships do. they had to battle the storm to get to their destination on time which means the ships were designed with this in mind. they are designed to travel through open oceans to cross large distances while cruise ships tend to stay close to the coast and wont travel far at all, relatively speaking.

as such, ocean liners sit much lower in the water and will tend to have a long, pointed bow. this allows them to much more easily cut through oncoming waves. if theyre sailing around icy waters, theyll also have reinforced bows like the stockholm did. after titanic, ocean liners began to be built with a "second skin" to their hull which is just a second hull inside the outer hull to reinforce the ship and protect against damages from anything from rough waves to icebergs.

further, the bridge on an ocean liner will be higher up, often on the top deck. this both aids with navigation for the crew as theyll have better vision, but also stops high waves from breaking over the bridge and covering it with water. the very few times where this occurred were often rogue wave encounters like the lusitania and the leonardo da vinci. the lifeboats will also often be positioned more inward to protect them from any damage from rough seas or weather.

this isnt to say cruise ships arent built to withstand rough weather. they certainly are, but not repeated occurrences of it. an ocean liner was going to face rough weather week after week after week; cruise ships tend to have the luxury of avoiding it.

cruise ships will sit higher up in the water, their bows will likely be much softer in angle and they will sail at a much lower speed.

if an ocean liner is a bus for the oceans, then a cruise ship is a party bus.

while most ocean liners did have beautiful interior and quarters for passengers, they dont hold a candle to cruise ships which are comparable to holiday resorts.

as ocean liners were being phased out, many lines began operating them as cruise ships because they could easily be converted into such. this happened with plenty of ocean liners like the ss france. others were specifically designed to operate as ocean liners half the year and cruise ships the other half like the rms empress of britain.

however, a cruise ship could not operate as an ocean liner because its simply not built for that.

this isnt getting into all the ethics of both vessels and their industries because thats a whole different topic that i feel much less qualified to speak on.

i will say that i am not a fan of cruise ships or the industry as a whole, and that also, cruise ships are so fucking ugly, my dude. they look like badly designed malls dropped on top of ships.

but yeah tl;dr: theyre different types of ships with different designs and functions. see the bus vs party bus comparison, i guess.

[swforester]

These weathered gravestones were once white. But they turned red over time probably from the effects of acid rain.

Southampton Center Cemetery 3/16/24

[ao3feed-mfmm]

Let the Walls Crack ('Cause It Lets the Light In)

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/qNHGMsm by glamorouspixels Phryne sighed as another flash of lightning lit up the sky. She had wanted to make his first day in England memorable, and while it was far too big a gesture to ever make up for, it was looking more and more like she wouldn’t even be given a chance to try. Words: 4900, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M Characters: Phryne Fisher, Jack Robinson Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Not Canon Compliant - Miss Fisher and the Crypt of Tears, First Time, Porn with Feelings, Bath Sex, reunion in southampton in shitty england weather, Overthinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, phryne gets a bit stuck in her own head, jack is the best partner and is more than happy to reassure her, Gentleness, Emotional Growth read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/qNHGMsm

[fatfables]

Fat People Can Sing Too (Part One)

The Santa Rosa was on her way back to Southampton after three months at sea. Ben was relieved. It had been his first voyage, his first time working on a cruise ship, and he hadn’t really enjoyed it. Yes, the weather in the Mediterranean was much better than back home in Nottingham, and he had developed a healthy tan, but he hadn’t enjoyed the job. He had always wanted to sing for a living, of course he dreamt of being a pop star, but he had always known that this was unrealistic. Still he lived for the stage. He had twice applied to RADA and twice been rejected, instead opting for a musical school for gifted youths in Manchester. The job on the Santa Rosa had at first seemed perfect, his big chance to perform regularly to real audiences who weren’t just his mates. He was a good singer with decent range, and he was handsome, not pretty but handsome, with deep brown eyes, a constant five o’clock shadow and thick brown hair that swept over his forehead. The audiences liked him but he hadn’t been so keen on them.

It was the repetition that bored him. He sang the same nine songs to what felt like the same twenty people every night. They were not the same people every night of course, but he could have sworn that they were. A retired couple from Basingstoke and their friends, also retired from Basingstoke. A loud fat business man always on his phone, the type who could never leave his job behind. A lonely bachelor and a lonely widow. Neither of whom would talk to each other, both hoping to catch someone twenty years younger. What a waste. A gay couple, a lesbian couple, four people who would wander in and out at least three times during a one hour set, and worst of all the children. Rude, demanding, obnoxious, and always on their phones. They all applauded politely. One or two would talk to him afterwards and tell him half-heartedly how good he was and that he should be on TV. He didn’t believe them because they didn’t believe themselves. As the Santa Rosa came into harbour he was glad it was over.

David was surprised at how well Ben was looking. They had been in constant contact via text for the three months that Ben had been away and all Ben had said was how much he hated it and couldn’t wait to get back home. So when he saw Ben disembark looking very well tanned, bulked, and smiling broadly, he was a bit shocked. He had been expecting him to appear depressed and anorexic, kind of like he had been that time in college when they both smoked too much weed and got dumped in the same week. He complimented Ben on his healthy appearance but Ben just waved it off blaming it on too much sun and too much access to the staff buffet three times a day. They drove back to Nottingham in near silence.

Ben had planned to go and live back with his parents for a while but David convinced him that was a terrible idea and that he should crash on his couch until he’d worked out what to do next. At twenty five David was slightly older than his friend and had maybe assumed that Ben was a touch more mature than he actually was. Ben wasn’t by any means childish but he took David’s kindness for granted and treated his apartment like it was his parents house. He spent his days playing computer games and eating snacks on the sofa and made no effort to look for an actual job. Singers don’t work in customer service or offices and they certainly don’t labour or lay bricks. He had replied to a few trade advertisements looking for club singers or band members but had no luck and anyway he really wasn’t into emo or death metal. So like a lot of self-proclaimed artistic types he sat around on his friends sofa waiting for his dreams to come true.

When David first read the advertorial on the pop-up strewn website of what used to be called the Nottingham Evening Post he considered asking Ben first but quickly dismissed the thought. Ben would complain but wouldn’t be able to turn the chance down. This was a chance to be a pop star and although it wasn’t the way that Ben would want to do it, it was at least an opportunity. It lacked artistic integrity , which he would hate, but he wouldn’t be able to say no. David turned out to be correct. The chance of success must have been less than one in a thousand but even one in a thousand was a chance to get Ben off his sofa.

The first round auditions for the new show took place at the Theatre Royal on a Sunday morning. There were no TV cameras or judges present. Ben was asked to perform a song, he chose, I Want to Break Free by Queen, and the sound only was recorded and sent off to the BBC, where a production team would listen to it and decide if you made the cut for the first round proper in front of the cameras. Ben was nervous but performed well. Three weeks later he got a letter to say that he had been selected and he was to go to London for filming at the end of the month. He was over the moon.

David attended with Ben. The new show to be broadcast on Saturday nights was called ‘I Can Sing Too’ and it followed a very familiar format but with a twist. Which performers would go through to the next round would initially be decided by four celebrity judges, who could not see the performers, only hear them. Nothing new so far. The twist was that the judges would never get to see the performers, voting them through on their singing ability alone every week, until the grand final that is, then they would be allowed to actually watch the acts. Public voting was of course involved and began at round three. Viewer and judge votes were equally weighted until the semi-final, at that stage it was seventy five percent public and twenty five percent judges. For the final the judges had no vote, only the viewers would get to decide the winner. Ben and David had yet to get to grips with the intricacies of the show, at this stage they had no idea that Ben would even get through round one.

He almost never made it on stage. The train to St. Pancras was badly delayed and then both being inexperienced with London they had gotten lost on the tube. When they arrived at the BBC they once more lost themselves in a maze of corridors looking for the right studio and set of dressing rooms. They had a strange conversation with a security guard who had eventually pointed them in the right direction after at first seeming to be very confused. Ben told him that he was to be on the new singing show, to which the guard said, “Oh you mean FPCS2.” Ben and David had no idea what the man was on about, “No, It’s called I Can Sing Too” Ben explained. “That’s kinda what I said” the guard had responded with a smirk, “I’m surprised you’re on that show. You’re really not so big.” “Er thanks,” Ben replied with growing uncertainty as to what was happening.

The guard did show them the correct way and Ben made it into make-up with less than five minutes to spare. There some nice scouse ladies powered his face, did his hair, and dressed him in a tight revealing translucent t-shirt that clung to the thin layer of podge that his stomach and chest had developed while he was on the cruise ship. He had protested and said he wanted to wear his own clothes but the scousers said that choice of clothing was contractually theirs and that it was just to keep the housewives happy at home. “You’re a good looking boy” they said “If you want them to vote for you in the later rounds then you need them to start liking you now.”

Ben sang ‘I’ll Make Love to You’ by Boyz ll Men and the judges voted him through in second place. He was ecstatic. Three contestants out of ten were taken forward to the next round the others were a fat old pensioner who crooned out a long forgotten Tony Bennett hit and a brother/sister combo who were so misshapen and ugly that it was hard to correctly gender assign them. All of the successful contestants were assigned a voice/career coach to help them train for the forthcoming rounds.

Ben’s coach was called Brian. He was a friendly but directly spoken thirty something with round rimmed glasses, a penchant for red wine, and his own house in Notting Hill. Not a couch in Nottingham. Brian had explained to Ben and David that they needed to find Ben a sad backstory, a sob-story to endear him to the housewives. “They need to feel sorry for you and sympathise with you at the same time as they want to fuck you.” Brian was nothing if not to the point. Ben hated the idea, he protested that he wanted to win based on his talent and nothing else. Brian laughed at him, “Gareth Gates had his speech impediment. Susan Boyle was as ugly as an arsehole with piles. You need to have something wrong with you. A weakness that is not your fault.” “Who’s Gareth Gates?” Ben had asked. “Oh, don’t worry about him, I’m pretty sure he’s dead now,” Brian replied.

After an hour or so of going round in circles with terrible ideas David finally chipped in with, “Didn’t your gran die from complications with her diabetes last year?” “Yeah but she was like eighty seven and I barely ever saw her.” “It’s a start,” said Brian jumping in on the faintest whiff of a workable idea. David was suddenly hit with the gift of inspiration, “And now you’ve been diagnosed with diabetes too!” “I have?” Brian purposefully misconstrued what Ben said. “That’s perfect! Having the same disease that killed your gran, your poor gran, who you loved so dearly and meant the world to you. Well that must be terrifying! That’s the sympathy card! That’s an ongoing problem and character development!” “I’m sure that lots of housewives have diabetes or know someone who does,” David chipped in. He was getting good at this. It was agreed. Ben had no say in it. He was now a young diabetic singer and needed to learn his place - if he wanted to be a pop star...

[juliasdowntonstuff]

So, about a week ago I did a writing-WIP-tag here on tumblr and that caused an old drabble to resurface thanks to @bella-caecilia. In the last few days I finished it and reworked it a couple times. That did not help in the least - in fact, it only made it worse (classic case of verschlimmbessern) so now I’ve decided to just put it out here to prevent me from making it even worse.

The prompt I used was given to me a by a friend and it was: "I don't need a lot to be happy"

you can also find it on ao3: click here

My dearest Robert,

I hope this letter reaches you well and in good health, wherever you are right now. I still do not dare to imagine what your daily life looks like and what horrors you are facing. But enough about that — I am sure you want to hear about home.

You will not believe what our daughters did yesterday afternoon. The three of them put on a show for me and your Mama! Edith played the piano — her lessons have not been wasted, I can assure you — while Mary sang so beautifully for us. And darling Sybil danced to their music. What a sight to behold.

It baffles me time and time again how Mary and Edith can be so nasty towards each other and fight all day long, and then put on such a nice show together immediately afterwards. Even Carson clapped excitedly for the girls and their efforts — Mary had insisted he stay and watch the show, as you can imagine.

Apart from that, nothing much has happened since the last time I wrote to you. Life has been slow, and the weather is still cold and windy, not at all pleasant enough to go on strolls alone. Oh, how I miss our daily walks, my dear!

I hope you get to come home soon, at least on leave from the front. I need to see you, my darling one.

But until my tired soul sets eyes on you again, I remain your longing, loving wife

Cora

Robert had had a bright smile on his face when an officer handed him the envelope with his wife's neat writing on it, even more so when he found not one, but two letters in the envelope. Reading his wife's letter first, that smile stayed there and almost extended all the way to his ears. He must have looked like a fool, but he frankly could not care less. He was a man deeply in love with his wife, and who could blame him for that?

She did not write much about life at home, she never did. She missed him, just like he missed her and their family, and that did not improve with writing about it too often, both of them had found. She had stopped writing those long letters full of stories of what happened at home months ago. At first, he had not noticed, he had been too preoccupied with the raging war. Still, when her letters had turned from spanning several pages to barely scraping the bottom of one single page, he had started to worry and eventually posed that question in one of his letters. Her reasoning had only been all too understandable when she replied and it made him miss his family even more.

He could not wait to get home.

Two and a half years. That's how long he had already been stationed in South Africa. He had seen his family only a handful of times in the many months since he got called up to serve his queen and country at the front. Even when he got leave, it was rarely enough to travel all the way back to England and see them. This war had cost him over two precious years of his life already. More than two valuable years he did not get to spend with Cora and their daughters and he couldn't wait to get home, hopefully for good in the near future.

Home. Downton Abbey.

He could still picture vividly the abbey's striking architecture as it rolled into view when one came home from the station or simply went on a long walk across the estate. He was proud, incredibly so, that he was the one to call this his home.

If only he was already standing at the gates to the estate.

But he was not. Not yet, anyway. Robert was still on a boat. One that was set to land in Southampton in only a matter of hours. Sure, he would still have to board several trains to take him up to London, then on to York, Ripon and then finally to Downton.

Home was already well within his reach. He had sent a letter to Taylor when he was on his way back to England to inform him of his arrival in the village but asked the chauffeur to keep it to himself as a surprise for her ladyship. By god, the young Earl hoped his chauffeur had listened and kept it to himself.

Then, on the train taking him to London, Robert had finally found the time and peace to read the letter his daughters had sent him. It was clear that Mary was the one who wrote it — he knew her writing that looked mature and meticulously placed for her age only too well. Reading the words she had written in seemingly hasty penmanship made his heart only grow heavier than it already was. He hated to think of his dear wife in such a state that even their daughters couldn't lighten her mood with a joint performance. Those were rare enough as they were. And it only made him want to get home even quicker.

Dearest Papa,

We sincerely hope you are somewhere safe and not getting yourself in danger.

Mama only just now told us we could write a few lines and put them into her envelope to be sent to you along with her letter, but we do not have much time.

All of us miss you so terribly much and we cannot wait for the next time you get home on leave. It seems like we have already forgotten what you look like — Edith and I have had quite the argument about the colour of your hair. She says it is a very, very dark blond, while I think your hair is a shade of brown. You do need to settle this for us, so please come home soon!

Mama has not been feeling too well since the last time you were home to see us. Ever since you left again, she has been in her room for most of her days and has not taken much interest in anything apart from tea with us and Granny. She looks so awfully, awfully sad all the time and we have not managed to cheer her up for long. Edith and I even played the piano and sang for her while Sybil danced!

Granny said that she is worried about Mama's lack of interest, and I have never seen her look so concerned.

Please, come home very soon, Papa!

That is all we wish for.

Promise us to please stay safe and think of us every once in a while.

Mary, Edith, and Sybil

Oh, he would give anything to see the scene of his daughters trying to cheer their mother up. He would give anything just to see their happy little faces look up at him.

What would his darling girls say once they caught sight of him in this state — his arm in a sling, covered in bandages, a healing gash on his forehead? His wounds and bruises were the sole reason he got granted this longer leave that allowed him to travel home to his family. He had not told them of his injury, not even Cora. He simply couldn't get himself to write those horrid words on paper.

Cora.

How would his beloved wife react when she saw him, battered and bruised as he was?

It was the beginning of May, and what a nice day it was.

Finally, after weeks of nothing but horribly dull weather in all of England, the sun had made a rare reappearance. For the first time in weeks, Cora wanted to go outside and maybe sit on the bench for a while — she would have to ask Thompson for her light coat in a few minutes. Cora had not been outside for longer than a few minutes in at least a month, but that had not entirely been to blame on the weather. Similarly, she had not even responded to any of the invitations to luncheon or tea with her mother-in-law down in the village in the dower house. A fact that would likely turn into a lengthy argument when she would next meet Violet, which was inevitably quite soon.

Cora knew that she should take more of an interest in the estate and entertain more of her acquaintances. But truth be told, she did not feel like it and she had no great aspirations to spend evenings with women who looked down on her because of her heritage, not when Robert wasn't there to cheer her up with a look or a stolen kiss.

She had not seen her husband in well over 9 months, and his last letter had reached her over a month ago. He had never taken so long to respond and it concerned her greatly. What if something happened to him, what if he wasn't coming home?

All of this uncertainty only further added to her uneasiness and sudden need for constant solitude. She found no real joy in things she once loved, and not even her daughters had managed to lift the heavy clouds weighing down on her.

Cora was standing at her bedroom window, looking out over the green grass in front of the house and the gravel path that stretched all the way down to the gates of their estate when she saw a carriage ride up to the house drawn by two horses.

They were not expecting anyone, were they? Or had she forgotten about a visitor? No, that could not be — someone would have reminded her; Mrs Hughes would have, surely.

Quickly, Cora turned and left the well-known comfort of her bedroom to rush downstairs and see who came to see them without prior announcement. Just when she arrived downstairs and crossed the threshold of the grand entryway, their butler opened the carriage door to let whoever was riding in the back step out onto the gravel.

There he was in his khaki uniform, climbing out of the carriage with a bright smile plastered onto his sun-kissed face.

Her eyes must be deceiving her, or maybe this was all just a dream.

Had Carson not looked so surprised himself, she would have believed that this was just wishful thinking, a rather vivid daydream at most. But he was here, he was home. Robert was home.

With three quick and long strides, he reached her, stopping only a metre in front of her when she did not move. His bright smile slowly turned into a frown when she still did not show any reaction to his presence.

"Cora," he said, trying to sound encouraging, and it seemed that this finally snapped her back into reality.

"Are you really here? Or are you just a figment of my imagination?" she breathed, looking up into his excited face.

"I am really here, my dear. I got granted enough leave to travel home at long last," he replied, taking off his beige military hat with his gloved left hand.

Then, without any warning, she closed the gap between them and fell into his arms. Her arms wrapped around his neck almost on their own accord and she pulled herself up into his embrace.

While trying to hold her tightly to him so that she would not fall, he winced and drew in a sharp breath. The sudden impact of her body on his was painful, and so was his right arm being squeezed between their bodies, but he couldn't deny relishing in the familiar sensation he had been deprived of for so long.

"Robert?" she asked alarmedly when she heard his sharp intake of breath. Only then, having stepped away from her husband again, she noticed the sling his right arm was in and caught sight of the already healing cut on his forehead. "Robert, what happened?" she gasped.

"Don't you worry, darling. I was wounded, but not too badly, and they gave me leave to convalesce a little. It is not as bad as it looks, I assure you, my dearest," Robert replied before making a start for the main entrance of his ancestral home. "Where are the girls?"

"They are on a walk with Nanny, I believe," Cora said, not at all sure if this was truly the case. Maybe they had gone on that walk the day before, or maybe Nanny had asked for the day ahead? Cora couldn't remember, she hadn't paid close enough attention. Their girls were not all that little any more, and she trusted their Nanny. It's not that she did not care — she did care, a lot! She just couldn't get her mind to focus on anything lately. Not even on her daughters' whereabouts.

"Good, so you can tell me all about what happened without us being interrupted over a cup of tea," he smiled as they went into the library.

///////////////////////////////

"Cora, I have to ask," Robert said after she had given him an account of what had happened in the last few months since he had last been home to England in August. By the sounds of what she told him, everything seemed perfectly alright, but that did not go well with what his daughters had written. Adding to that, he knew his wife well enough to know that she liked to keep her sadness to herself to spare the feelings of others.

"What is it, darling?"

Cora looked at him wide-eyed, expectation and fearful anticipation clearly visible on her still youthful features while her hands closed around the empty teacup she held close to her chest, sitting up straighter on the settee.

Robert scooted closer, carefully taking one of her hands in his. While she was trying to avoid his gaze, his eyes searched her face worriedly. Calmly, he said: "How have you been, truly?"

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked, pretending to sip from the empty teacup in her hands.

"The girls wrote to me and they said you were incredibly unhappy, hiding away in your bedroom most of the time. They even said that Mama was worried about you. Speaking of which — she, too, wrote to me, about 6 weeks ago, stating that you have ignored all her invitations to come down to the Dower House and also haven't invited her to come here, either. I know you haven't been entertaining, that is somewhat understandable. But this is not like you, dear, no matter how hard she is being on you."

"Nothing gets past you, then," she replied dejectedly. "You know everything, even when you are half a world away. It's true, I have not been feeling my best in recent weeks."

"What can I do? What do you need to be happy again?"

"I don't need a lot to be happy, Robert, you know that," she said dismissively, glancing shyly to the ground near the fireplace.

"Yes, I do know that. But what does it take for you to be happy now? There must be something, surely."

"I need to know you're safe," she replied, finally meeting his gaze.

"And you shall have that for at least another fortnight still," Robert replied, taking her slender fingers in his bigger, unscathed hand.

That was not entirely what she meant and he knew that, but a fortnight was all he had to offer, no matter how much he wished it was more.

"What happened?" she then asked, motioning to his arm to bridge the silence that had fallen over them.

"We were under attack during the night, we had not seen it coming. They cornered us, but we fought back. I was lucky that my batsman had been awake, he warned me just in time, he saved me. We managed to get away, not unscathed, obviously. He had to be taken to a military hospital to get stitched up while they sent me home. So many of our fellow men didn't. But enough about tha-"

Suddenly, squeals of delight filled the library when the three girls entered, almost running to their father but remembering their lessons in etiquette and good behaviour.

"Papa?"

"Papa! It is you!"

"I knew that was your voice I heard from out in the hall!"

It was little Sybil in her light blue dress who first asked: "Papa, what happened to your arm?"

"Oh, that. It's nothing for you to worry about. Papa fell badly and needs to let his arm rest for a little while longer. That is why the doctors gave me a sling."

"And what about your forehead, Papa?" Mary asked curiously.

"Like I said, I took a rather bad fall. But this, too, shall heal again, I have no doubts about that. And now come here and let me hug you," he laughed, opening his arms for his three young daughters.

They all but ran towards him again, throwing their short arms around him while squealing in delight.

"Mary, Edith?" he asked as his daughters hugged him.

Dutifully, they all let go of him, stepped away and looked at him expectantly.

"Yes, Papa?"

"I hope you did not give your mother and Nanny too many grievances while I was away?"

The two elder girls looked at each other rather guiltily, but it was Sybil who eventually replied: "They did fight a lot, but I managed to calm them down, apologise to each other and then make them play nicely again every single time."

The young girl looked up proudly at her father, bouncing on her feet so that the hem of her dress swayed animatedly with her movements.

"That was very good of you, Sybil, my dear. Thank you," Robert said as he patted his youngest's head. Turning to face Edith and Mary he added: "Now, the two of you have undoubtedly noticed that I have not yet replied to your last letter and there is still an unresolved argument, isn't there?"

"What do you mean, Papa?" Edith asked sheepishly, her eyes flitting from her father to her mother and back again to her father.

"Well, I gather the two of you have been fighting about the colour of my hair, haven't you?"

"Oh, that. That was nothing, Papa. It was just a silly argument, I should not have mentioned it," replied Mary hastily, trying to diminish the fight she mentioned in the letter to their father. It was, after all, a truly banal question that she posed.

"Was it really silly if you indeed argued over it?" he said when his daughters both shook their heads no rather shamefully. "No, I didn't think so. If you were to ask your Granny for photographs and paintings of me in my youth, you would find that my hair indeed used to be lighter. I had blonde hair when I was a child, with a hint of red in it, just like Aunt Rosamund. Then, as I grew older, it got darker until the darker shade of blonde I had in my youth had turned into brown. Until finally, in the last few months especially, it has started to turn increasingly more grey."

The Earl leant forward in his seated position and pointed towards his temples to let his daughters inspect what he had just told them. And it was true, the hair at his temples was already turning considerably grey, even though he had not yet reached 40.

Just then, Nanny came to call the girls upstairs for their bath. Diligently, Mary and Edith bid their parents goodbye and quickly dashed upstairs. Only Sybil stayed back and moved closer to her father.

With her voice barely above a whisper — as if she were to plot something with him — she said: "You know, Papa, they didn't fight badly about this. I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I can't let them lie to you and mama. They didn't fight about the colour of your hair. In fact, they never truly argued about your hair at all, we simply talked about you, what we remembered about you and how much we missed you. This was all just a plan we came up with that was meant to get you to come home to us faster. We thought if we exaggerated things, you might be able to come home. I am sorry," the young girl said, bowing her head ashamedly.

"Sybil, darling, I know."

"You do?" she asked. Her brown eyes were wide when she looked back up at her father with surprise and shock

"Yes, of course. Why would you ever seriously fight about something so insignificant like the colour of my hair? And I am not mad about this plan of yours, not in the least. I wouldn't even have been mad if they had argued."

"You would not?" Sybil asked.

"You would not?" Cora echoed her daughter, almost at the same time and just as surprised.

Robert quickly smiled at Cora before turning back to face his daughter. He took Sybil's small hands in his.

"Sybil, your sisters argue over many things. They always have and they likely always will. They are very different people, and both have inherited their mother's strong determination, as have you. That leads them to argue a lot, but they are still sisters. They love you and they love each other, they just can't show it. They don't know how. This plan of yours just shows that you care; all of you do, and I am glad for it. So no, I am not mad that you lied."

Sybil beamed brightly at him, more than relieved that her Papa was not cross with any of them for their deception, and quickly made to leave the room and follow her sisters upstairs.

"But only this once, little lady," he shouted after her when she was already out the door.

Her head peeked back around the wooden door again, still smiling widely, as she said: "Of course, Papa, we will never lie, ever again!"

Her parents shared a laugh at that, both knowing this to be quite far from the truth. Neither of them was an only child, after all. Just when they thought they had the library to themselves again and Robert made to kiss his wife, Carson entered with a silver tray in hand. Starting to get quite irritated by the interruption, he asked rather harshly: "What is it now, Carson?"

"I am sorry to interrupt you, milord, but this just arrived for you," the butler replied as he lowered the tray for him to retrieve the envelope. "I will also ring the dressing gong in a minute." Then, turning to face the lady of the house, he said: Oh, and the Dowager Countess has also sent word that she will arrive very soon. She will stay for dinner and she will not take no for an answer this time."

"Thank you, Carson," both of them said in unison, and Robert helped his wife up from the settee. He knew she would immediately want to go down to the kitchens and report the change in the menu to their still rather new cook and inform her of the two extra stomachs that needed to be filled.

Sure enough, Carson rang the gong as soon as he was out in the hall again and soon after that, Violet arrived at the abbey. All evening, Robert wanted nothing more than to finally be alone with his wife. And yet, his mother, who was understandably quite joyous about his leave of convalescence, simply would not leave that night.

///////////

It was almost midnight by the time they were alone in her bedroom, both exhausted after the events and surprises of the day.

Lying in bed, Robert watched his wife, who was still sitting at her dressing table and took off her jewellery. He saw how preoccupied she seemed, that her mind was somewhere miles away. Cora had her brow furrowed and pensively took off her right earring while staring at her reflection in the mirror with a frown on her face.

"Cora, what do you truly need to be happy?"

"I told you already, darling. I don't need much to be happy."

"Yes, I know you don't. But what is it that you truly need or desire? What would make you feel better?" Robert pressed on.

Silence.

For a minute, a deafening silence filled the otherwise cosy bedroom. His wife looked at him through the mirror on the vanity. She let her gaze wander from the long laceration on his forehead to his arm resting limply in the sling, and then back up to his face.

"You, Robert. You are who and what I need. I need you with me, here at Downton, and not away on another continent fighting for your life every single minute of every single day. I need you here with me. I need to be sure that you're safe, that you are far out of harm's way. I need to know you're alive, that you'll come home to me."

Cora turned and finally looked at him.

When he did not reply, she added: "It seems like I have steadily gotten worse at coping without you here. It is true, what the girls wrote in their letter to you. I have been unhappy and I have been ignoring your mother's messages and invitations. I am honestly quite surprised I did not get an earful about that tonight. No doubt that was only because of your unforeseen presence."

"I think you might be right about that, dearest," he chuckled. The same thought had crossed his mind already, as well, and it would be in his mother's character.

"Robert, I mean it. Look at you, you have been hurt badly-"

"It could have been worse, so much worse. So many of my comrades will never return home like I did. But I had a lucky charm that saved me. Which reminds me-"

As gracefully as he could, he hoisted himself out of bed and went to his dressing room. Cora only heard how he rummaged through something, muttering under his breath, until he eventually returned and took a seat on the cushioned bench at the foot of their bed.

"I want you to have this back," he said, extending his left hand.

With surprise written all over her face, Cora looked at what he tried to give her.

It was her lucky charm, the small toy dog she had insisted Robert take with him to the front when he was first called up. Her father had given it to her when she was a young girl and it had always brought her luck, and so she wanted Robert to have it. He would need all the luck he could get, she had figured.

"No, Robert. You need it. I can't take it from you."

"You can. Your lucky charm did its trick, it saved me. I am here, am I not? Please, I insist."

Once again, he urged her to take the toy, extending his arm further towards her.

"No, take it back with you. This time, you and your batsman were only injured. But god knows what will happen next time," Cora replied adamantly.

She took his hand and closed it around the small dog, trying to push Robert's hand back towards his chest.

"Cora, take it, please. I have no use for it any longer. There is nowhere left I could take it."

"I don't understand?"

"The mysterious letter Carson brought this afternoon. I never told you what it was about, did I?"

Seeming more than slightly confused about the sudden change of subject, Cora shook her head no. They hadn't had a chance to talk since then, and she had already forgotten about the letter delivered to him, if she was completely honest with herself.

"It was a telegram from the general I served under in Africa. He said that the last of the guerillas finally surrendered a few days ago and that a treaty is currently in the works, waiting to be signed. That will put an end to this war once and for all. I don't need your lucky charm any longer because I'm staying. I'm staying for good this time, Cora," he smiled.

"You will never have to go back there?" she asked, bewilderment written all over her features.

"No. I will never have to go back there. The war is over for me, for us. I am home and I wanted you to be the first person to know."

Robert tried again to give Cora the toy. And this time, she took it. Gladly. She stood up and put it on her nightstand before getting into bed, waiting for him to do the same.

He lifted the covers on his side of the bed and slid under them, carefully trying not to move his arm too much. Once she had finally settled into bed next to him and her head was resting on his chest as she snuggled up to him, he asked: "Cora, are you happy now?"

"I told you, I don't need a lot to be happy," she replied. "And this proves it. Yes, I am so very happy."

"Good, so am I."

[dansnaturepictures]

18/12/2022-American Wigeon and more at Pennington and bits at home 

We came to Pennington on a wet morning/early afternoon to look for this rarity, and I’m very pleased that we saw it. Thanks to the immense help of a kind person we saw on arrival who had seen it who pinpointed for us the exact area it was at and directions from someone we know online beforehand we got some lovely views of it on the banks beside Efford Lake viewing from the path from Lower Pennington Lane car park. It was a treat to see its creamy head and exotic emerald head stripe as its head went up and down with a flock of Wigeons. It was a very special bird to see, and relocated a few times in regular take offs from the group due to the regular presence of a soaring Marsh Harrier including onto the water at one point. This is a pleasing fifth new bird of 2022 for me, my first life tick since July, taking my life list to 282 and year list to 206. An extremely pleasing figure for me it was such a big thing getting to 200 for me again this year and then getting one more year tick to make my year list my highest ever so to be a fair way into the first tenth of the 200s for my first ever time is amazing. In an illustrious list of species I’ve been lucky to see for the very first time this year it’s another well known species which has been a theme of the year and it’s another American duck.

At Pennington it was also nice to see Gadwall, Mallard, one of my favourite birds the Brent Geese with some flying over and others gathered nicely in a field, Canada Goose, get nice views of Curlew and Oystercatcher, possibly Redshank, Herring Gull, Great Black-backed Gull Blackbird well and Wren dashing into vegetation. Yellow gorse in flower as the second picture I took today in this photoset shows glowed like Christmas lights in the dreary weather, with teasel seed heads, remnants of dock I believe and cleavers looking nice hugging the low sides of the track alongside bramble bushes and trees. It was nice to take in some moody views over the water the third and fourth pictures in this photoset with Hurst Castle just visible in the distance. 

At home today I saw the Blackbird out the back really well again and Starlings this morning getting the first picture in this photoset of the former. This afternoon I enjoyed four Collared Doves lined up nicely on the roof of the garages looking atmospheric in the pouring rain which I took the fifth, sixth and seventh pictures in this photoset of before they came into the garden to feed which was a great sight. Starlings joined them too and Blue Tit, House Sparrow and Goldfinch were great to see in the garden today as well. I enjoyed raindrops on the windows as the rain persisted this afternoon/towards evening with the yellow, red, green and blue of the Christmas lights on the balcony behind lighting up the raindrops such a beautiful scene I did a re-creation of a shot I took on Christmas Day last year of this these shown in the eighth and ninth pictures in this photoset. On the way out today a Song Thrush in a garden near home was nice to see as was a little New Forest pony on the way back. It was interesting yesterday evening in Southampton as we returned from a festive tradition of ours going to a brilliant pantomime at the Mayflower Theatre to see a Black-headed Gull flying about at night time. A very memorable, relaxing and fun weekend, I hope you all have a good week.